


Quasi-Matrimony

by rainedparade



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Alternative Interpretations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainedparade/pseuds/rainedparade
Summary: A look at the Yeerk-host perspective from the Yeerkish side of things, especially taking into account how the relationship would be -- in many cases -- the longest one experienced.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am two decades late to the party. OTL

Another piece of Andalite propaganda which Esplin took great lengths to combat was the idea that Yeerks treated their hosts poorly.

This was nothing short of libel, really.

For creatures who were born into perfect bodies, they certainly were incapable of looking down from their dome towers. Surely their intelligence reports would say how many Yeerks there were. Millions -- hundreds of millions, even. And the majority, sixty percent at least, would never leave the Pool. Of the fourty percent to leave, how many would be blessed with a sighted host? Of a host capable of nuanced motions?

Of the hundred-hundred million Yeerks in the galaxy, how many would be blessed with an _Andalite_ host?

Just him. Just Esplin. And were it up to him, he would remain the only Andalite controller for time immemorial.

Which is why he finds it so amusing that Alloran expects mistreatment bordering on torture. He, who had been nothing but respectful to even his Gedd and Taxxon host, was somehow going to switch gears when presented with an Andalite? Preposterous.

‹You are mistaken, my dear Alloran,› Esplin murmurs, ‹Your body will be a temple and I, a devoted worshipper at your altar.›

‹Get out, get out, GET OUT!›

‹I know you have no desire to be a god,› Esplin continues, unfazed by the disquiet and disgust. Andalites were not so different from Hork-Bajir, then. ‹But a god is what I shall make you into and by the end of it... you shall see yourself as I see you.›

‹You blaspheme. I want no part in your Yeerkish ways. Get! Out!›

Alloran rages, seemingly without end, and Esplin is grateful that this is not his first host. Were he less experienced, he might have risen to the challenge.

‹You see,› he tries to explain when Alloran has quietened, for a bit, ‹Our relationship is quite like a mated pair.›

‹A mated pair?!› Alloran explodes, rankling with offense, ‹I already _have_ a wife! I have no need of you, Yeerk and -- ›

‹But what else would you call us?› Esplin interjects. ‹For we shall be linked for eternity and I shall hold you in the highest -- ›

‹You are a parasite,› Alloran sneers, ‹And I shall be counting down the days 'till I am rid of you and reunited with my wife.›

‹You wound me, my dear Andalite,› Esplin chides. That much is truthful, though he reckons the Andalite's fury will dull with time. ‹But as I was saying: I shall hold you in the highest esteem. Consider it a loan from your other duties, if you must, though I have no intention of returning you.›

‹You needn't worry,› he reassures, ‹I take very good care of my things.›

-

Something else which he had not bothered informing Alloran of was Yeerkish mating habits. Unlike Andalites, where miniscule pieces of a mated pair were used to fashion a child, the trio which made up a Yeerk parent-group was sacrificed in the mating process. Of course, this led to dozens of (and in one instance, nearly a hundred) new-born Yeerks, explaining the difference in their populations, but at the same time, meant there was a distinctly different dicohotomy between lovers and parents in Yeerks.

After receiving his first host, Esplin was determined to live as long as possible. In that regard, there was no chance to seek out a Yeerkish mate. Not that he would have had the interest for it anyways, in truth his own people bored him for the most part.

This was yet another reason why he was so eager to lavish attention on Alloran. Determined that the other would acknowledge, and perhaps in the distant future, reciprocate, his own heady feelings, Esplin calls for a new set of waiting staff made up of dehorned and declawed Hork-Bajir, for the sole purpose of tending to the Andalite. And so it is that Alloran's hooves are polished, his fur brushed and trimmed so that his whole coat gleamed, his muscles massaged, his tailblade sharpened, and so on and so forth.

‹See,› Esplin cannot keep from saying, ‹You cannot deny how pleasant this is. In a day, I have done more for you than you yourself have in decades!›

‹And for what end?› Alloran snorts, feeling only revulsion when Esplin forces him to look at his own well-groomed reflection, ‹Warriors are not meant to be performers.›

‹And yet,› Esplin argues, irked that the other refuses to appreciate the simple aesthetic of the view, ‹Would you not say you look _better_?› He turns the other, stepping to one side and then the other; truly, every angle is flattering and oh, how the fur _shines_. The Andalite eyes too, after a week's worth of rest, compliment the build and fur quite well.

‹Is that all?› Alloran drawls and only then does Esplin realize he had been voicing his thoughts.

‹At the moment,› he sniffs, refusing to be embarrassed. If anything, Alloran should have been the one embarrassed, to have allowed himself to waste away in such a state! And his wife too, such an attractive specimen in his memories, what would she have thought of her war prince husband, to see him so? ‹You really should have taken better care of yourself,› he chastises, ‹But it is alright. I am here now.›

Alloran rants about Yeerkish arrogance and delusions and Esplin lets him.

-

The task of relieving an Andalite body aboard a Yeerk Blade Ship designed with Taxxons and Hork-Bajir and little else in-mind is a trial for the both of them.

Alloran is screaming every obscenity in the book and making some new ones out of frustration and spite. Normally, it would be easy to tune the other out, but Esplin's attentions are concentrated on maneuvering the... while not sizable, certainly poorly-suited... Andalite body in a toilet stall for Hork-Bajir.

‹Oh -- oh Karfan,› Alloran moans at the end of it, ‹By the tree and the river, you -- you, Yeerk!›

‹Oh quiet,› Esplin snaps, ‹I didn't hear you with any better suggestions.›

‹You said you would hold me in the highest esteem!› It was a little absurd to fall back on such an promise, but nonetheless touching. At least it showed the other payed some heed to their conversations, myriad though they were.

‹And how is this not? We are in private. There is no one to witness your shame!›

‹YET HERE YOU ARE.›

‹AND HERE I WILL BE,› Esplin counters, reaching for the sanitary filter. ‹Now stop shrieking and tell me how to commission something which would suit your needs better.›

Alloran rages at the indignity of it all and is no help, but Esplin eventually dives into his memories and sees that the cluster of trees to the side of the central dome in Andalite vessels provide a conclave of privacy.

‹What are you doing,› Alloran protests, flustering, ‹Stop that.›

‹You...› For once, words fail him. Esplin had kept an image of Andalites, by way of evolution, evolving out of the need for sanitary spaces. And yet, here were Alloran's memories, as recent as the month prior. ‹You high and mighty Andalites -- ›

‹Silence, Yeerk!›

But Esplin is too mirthful to be silenced. ‹You -- onto the grass -- ›

‹It's completely sanitary.›

‹The grass which you then eat.›

‹We do _not_ ingest the yilka-grass!›

Esplin cannot help it, he begins to laugh. Alloran's shoulders shake and his tail twitches but the sound of laughter is long-forgotten amongst Andalites. And so he stands there, privy to yet another secret of the enemy, while Alloran fumes and speaks snidely of Yeerkish waste management technology.

‹I must ask,› he starts when he's just about composed himself, ‹This yilka-grass... surely your hooves must taste it at the end of it.›

‹And? What of it?›

Were all Andalites this easily rankled? Esplin amuses himself with Alloran's embarrassed discomfort, though he reassures the other (after stepping out of the stall not much worse for the wear) that the workers will be tasked with building a more accommodating washroom post-haste.

-

As soon as he's been made Visser -- the youngest and fastest promotion to date -- and given a wealth of new resources, Esplin makes the acquaintance of a Skrit Na trader.

"Your eminence, Visser," the merchant bows low, interlacing its front talons, "How may I be of service to you?"

‹Looking at your ship manifest, it seems that you bypass the Andalite home world from time to time?›

(‹What are you planning now,› Alloran interjects.)

"Yes-s-s," the Skrit hisses, bobbing twice, "There is an old port which we are still allowed to land at. The Andalites enjoy precious stones and metals from the galaxies."

‹How quaint.› Definitely something to keep in-mind, though he reckons _his_ Andalite would be the contrarian sort. ‹Well, if you could ask for a sample of grass from them...›

"Grass, your eminence?"

‹Mm. Some...› he rifles through Alloran's memories, ‹Ribar and maybe junup grass, if you will. Keep it in stasis and bring it to me and you will be handsomely rewarded.›

"With pleasure, Visser!" the Na purrs, rubbing its wings before bowing. It flits away, leaving Yeerk and host in the meeting bay.

‹Thoroughly unnecessary,› Alloran insists.

‹Liar,› Esplin contradicts, ‹I don't even need to check to see that you're looking forward to it.›

‹...As if the trader will be good on his word.›

‹Excited, aren't we?›

-

The promise of grass from his homeworld is indeed enough to keep Alloran enthused for the duration of the wait. Some months later and the Skrit Na trader returns with the promised goods: a half-acre of stasis'd grassland from the Andalite homeworld.

‹What did you call this venture?› Esplin teases after the trader has been handsomely paid and a portion of the grass has been set aside for cultivation. Were Andalites in possession of the right glands, Alloran would have surely been salivating: to stand before such familiar territory and kept still at bay. ‹Unnecessary, was it?›

‹It still is,› his host insists, stubborn to the end.

Esplin laughs, extending a hoof so that the other could nearly taste the fragrant scent of home.

‹How long could you resist, I wonder?›

‹Indefinitely,› the war-prince answers. And though his response gives no indication of faltering, a tremor in his psyche is guess enough.

‹Well,› Esplin sighs, ‹Never let it be said that I denied you anything.› He has one hoof make contact, and then the next, and the next, and the next. Alloran buzzes in excitement, in ecstasy, and Esplin adores him a little more at that. ‹I love you to the point of madness, my dear Andalite,› he casually confesses, stepping reverently through the stalks.

‹You are a curious one,› Alloran responds, stalk eyes sliding shut from sheer nostalgia, ‹For a Yeerk.›


End file.
